More Words I Love.

Welcome back. It's okay to like certain words, but try not to fall in love with them. At the same time, don't neglect or forget them, either. Remember them as you might remember important moments in your life. And think about this: The words you use are indicators of the person you are; they also adumbrate the person you are becoming.

Omerta: noun, Italian. A secrecy sworn to by oath; a code of silence. Origin: In 1909 from the Italian,umilta, meaning humility, referring to the code of submission of individuals to the overriding group interest. From the Latin humilitas. Example: ''A time-honored culture of omerta often prevails at the Supreme Court.'' David Remick writing in The New Yorker, 2015.

Adumbrate trans. verb To outline; give a faint indication of; to foreshadow; to overshadow; to obscure. Origin: 1575-1585, from the Latin, adumbratus, meaning shaded equivalent to ad + umbra meaning shade, shadow + -atus. Example: The storming of the Bastille in 1789 was the adumbration of the French Revolution that rallied citizens to overthrow the king. Noun: Adumbration.

Delineate verb To trace the outline of; sketch or trace a visual representation of; to portray in words; describe precisely. Origin: Latin, Delineatus, meaning to outline. Entering English between 1550 and 1560. Example: In the President's speech he took great care to delineate the major components of the law. Related words: delineated, delineating, delineation.

Apercu noun French A hasty glance, a glimpse; an immediate judgment; understanding; insight; an outline or summary. Literal meaning in French: perceived. Example: They exchanged an ominous apercu.

Note how the words delineation and apercu have very different meanings, yet the word ''outline'' defines them both.

Beamish adj Bright, cheerful and optimistic. Origin: Between 1520 and 1530, coming from beam + ish. Example: He had a beamish smile.

Intenerate verb To make soft or tender; to soften. Origin: In the late 1500s. The word has its roots in the Latin term tener, meaning ''tender.'' Example: The leather was intenerated. Other forms: intenerates, intenerated.

Itinerant noun Traveling from place to place, especially on a circuit, as a minister, judge or laborer. Origin: 1560-1570. Late Latin from the present participle of itinerate, to journey. Example: Itinerant preacher.

Notice how different the words intenerate and itinerant are, even though they sound alike.

Anthesis noun used in botany The period or act of expansion in flowers, especially the maturing of the stamens. Origin: This word entered English in the 1800s. Its roots lie in the Greek anthesis, meaning bloom. Example: During anthesis the avocado tree is sensitive to temperature, which can severely disrupt the dichogamy mechanism.

Antithesis noun Opposition; contrast. The direct opposite (usually followed by of or to.) Example: Her reputation was that of a coward, but her behavior showed her to be the very antithesis of that.

Note: Do not confuse anthesis and antithesis.

Dysphemism noun The substitution of a harsh, disparaging or unpleasant expression for a more neutral one; an expression so substituted. Origin: The word entered English in the late 1800s. Derived from the Greek dys- meaning ill or bad + pheme meaning ''speaking.'' Example: In the charges, they decided to call the activity ''data collection'' after the term ''spying'' was excluded as a dysphemism.

Euphemism noun The substitution of a mild, indirect or vague expression for one thought to be offensive, harsh or blunt. Origin: From the Latin, Euphonia, meaning to sound good. Example: ''To pass away'' is a commonly used euphemism for ''to die.'

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Notice how dysphemism and euphemism have the exact opposite meaning.

More lovely words next month. Send in your favorites.

More Word Love

Welcome back. Falling in love with words is like falling in love with marble figurines. Basically, it is a narcissistic experience. Still I can't resist. Continuing on from last month, here are a few more words that have managed to worm their way into my heart.

Clutch: Of course as a noun it is a woman’s purse or part of an automobile, but I love it as a verb because one cannot clutch anything without there being passion or strong emotions involved in the holding of that thing, whatever it is.

Clenched: Whether it is a fist or teeth that are clenched, emotions run deep with this verb, which is also why I love it.

Downcast: In this iPhone age, we have all forgotten that we needn’t always write, ''He walked looking down.'' If we choose, we can write, ''He walked with downcast eyes,'' thereby causing the style of our writing to look up.

Harsh: Whether we are speaking of a harsh winter or harsh penalty calls in a sport, this admittedly old-fashioned and somewhat under-used word provides a wonderful alternative to old standbys such as punishing, strict, draconian, or unfair.

Seldom: Today this word is seldom used yet it exudes dignity, honor and a sense of importance. What a colorful alternative to ''rarely'' and ''infrequently.''

Slender: I put it to you, dear reader: Would you rather have a slender figure, a thin figure, a slim figure, or an emaciated figure? I rest my case. Yet today the word ''slender'' is rarely used. You can make your writing distinctive by calling upon it every once in a while.

Winnow: To drive or blow (chaff, dirt) away by fanning; to blow upon, fan; to separate. Note: the word parse that we covered last month also means to separate out, but applies to analyzing a sentence by its grammatical parts of speech.

Ephemera: The plural of ephemeron, which refers to anything that is short-lived or ephemeral.

Specious: Pleasing to the eye on the surface, but lacking genuine merit. Plausible. Usually used in reference to ideas or thinking.

Comely: Pleasing in appearance, attractive, fair. Usually used in reference to people, e.g., A comely maid.

Abhorrent: Detestable or loathsome.

Odious: Deserving hatred, detestable.

Sophistic: Fallacious, logically unsound.

Cohort: A companion or associate.

Words I love.

Welcome back. When you become smitten with words, prepare to endure unrequited love. Despite my best efforts to remain aloof from words and cold-hearted about them, a few have wormed their way into my heart. I am uplifted, enlivened and never, never bored by them. Here are a few of my favorites:

Vague: Indistinct, unclear

Evanescent: Vanishing, fading away, fleeting (''The evanescent glow of fireflies'')

Glance: A brief look

Diaphanous: Sheer, transparent or translucent

Footfall: Footstep

Aggress: To commit the first act of aggression

Smitten: Struck down, infatuated

Caress: An embrace, a light stroking (I particularly like ''aggress'' and ''caress'' used together. ''Shall I aggress or caress?'')

Ferocious: Fierce, savage, brutal, predatory

Lumpen: Dispossessed, displaced people who have lost social status. (I see lumps of clay. ''These are the lumps of the lumpen.'')

Vicious: Ferocious, brutal, dangerous, aggressive

Agon: A conflict, a struggle (''Job had an agon with God.'')

Bask: Laze, lie, lounge

Parse: To examine critically, to break down in component parts (''How could I begin to parse the sentiment behind that look?'')

Distracted: Preoccupied

Doleful: Sorrowful, mournful

Jiggling: Shaking, wiggling, fidgeting

Wayworn: Fatigued by travel

Flickering: Glimmering, dancing, twinkling, sparkling

Coruscate: Give off or reflect flashes of light (''They pulled up at the farthest end of a loop path that looked out over the great basin of the Rio Grande under brilliant, coruscating stars.'' Bill Roorback writing in Big Bend)

Aglow: Shining, radiating, smoldering

Swoon: To enter a state of ecstasy

Swirl: Whirl, eddy, billow, spiral

Rapture: Joyful ecstasy

Vague: Indistinct, unclear

Confabulation: Easy, unrestrained conversation

Evocative: Tending to evoke (''The fragrance was evocative of languid summer afternoons.'')

Sere: Dry, withered

Wizened: Shriveled, aged, white with age

Languid: Slow, listless

Rheumy: A mucous discharge from eyes or nose (sometimes snot)

Phantasmagoric: Deceptive appearances in a dream or created by the imagination

Languish: To become weak or feeble

Dear Reader, look for more evocative words next month. Send in your favorites.

Why I Always Migrate Back to Bird by Bird.

Just as the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano, I return to a perennial nesting place, a book Anne Lamott wrote about writing called Bird by Bird.

Whenever I see birds thriving in difficult and unlikely locations, among craggy cliffs, atop flagpoles or in lonesome pines along wind swept bluffs, I think about writers. Like our fine-feathered friends, some of us are irrepressible songbirds who somehow manage to thrive under harsh and unforgiving conditions.

An article about Laura Hilldebrand in last week's New York Times magazine describes the health hardships that the author endured while writing her best-sellers Seabiscuit and Unbroken. But isn't that the point? She has endured. Could it have been the challenges that helped her rise to the occasion and produce works of steely purpose and unbroken spirit? That is the question posed by the article's author Wil S. Hylton.

Saying it's difficult to be a writer is true but it's also trite. However, if becoming a writer is your goal and if you are looking for a fine book about how to write and lead the writing life, you can't land on a better one than Bird by Bird.

No writer should go without reading this work at least once.

Here are six reasons why:

1. Anne Lamott writes from of a wealth of experience derived from many years of teaching writing. She doesn't lecture. She tells stories. She knows what we, her readers, want to know and what our monkey-mind is prattling on about as we read her book. For example, at one point she takes time out from a discussion of writing craft to indicate that right now we, the readers, want to ask, ''But do you need an agent to get published?'' She's right, of course. That is what most readers want to know right off the bat. And we don't want a discussion about craft to get in the way of knowing. The beauty of Anne Lamott's writing: She is willing to skip around, which, to my way of thinking is a great way to cover the subject of writing.

2. She can be comic and downright hilarious. For example, she starts by stating, ''…good writing is about telling the truth. We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do no seem to share this longing.'' Thus, she introduces us to her delightfully zany, readable and lively style. But then a few sentences later, she gives up on the truth by writing, ''But after a few days at the desk, telling the truth in an interesting way turns out to be about as easy and pleasurable as bathing a cat.''

The question she asks, without asking, is this: Who would ever want to read a book about writing written in a ponderous style? ''No one'' is our answer.

3. She encourages us to write about the bad stuff, the really bad stuff, in our lives. If you have had horrific experiences, she insists (rightly) that ''you own them.'' She encourages all of us to rise to the challenge of writing about the bad stuff and not avoid it in favor of writing about light and airy stuff. I know from experience, if you try to avoid writing about it, the bad stuff will only show up in your writing in other weird ways. Far better to confront it head on.

4. She has a wonderful way of letting us access the fun of writing. For example, her metaphors: In a section on ''Polaroids,'' she tells us ''You're not going to know how your shitty first draft turns out until it does. She gives us permission to write shitty first drafts by calling them exactly that. She calls the process of writing similar to ''School Lunches'' by writing, ''It only looked like a bunch of kids eating lunch. It was really about opening our insides in front of everyone.'' She is able to raise her work to being instructions on life itself. That makes it very valuable.

5. She has a wonderful way of letting us access the terror of writing. She makes it clear that if you wish to be a writer, you must find a way of face up to your demons. ''Then your mental illnesses arrived at the desk like your sickest, most secretive relatives. And they pull up chairs in a semicircle around the computer; and they try to be quiet but you know they are there with their weird coppery breath, leering at you behind your back.'' By describing what we are afraid of and making it real, she enables us to laugh at the terror. She gives us strategies to deal with it, how to not yield to it. This alone makes Bird by Bird a very valuable writing companion. We come to writing well armed with Anne Lamott's humor.

6. She is a marvelous teacher of writing. She helps us focus on what is attainable, on what we can write about successfully today, right now, this very second. One of the more memorable and truthful things she writes has to do with publication. In her words: ''Almost every single thing you hope publication will do for you is a fantasy…''

By being a marvelous writer herself, she models how an excellent teacher of writing can and should proceed.

Yes, writing can be hard. Writing can be difficult. Yes, it takes courage to keep the demons at bay knowing you may never be able to destroy them. But there are compensatory givebacks and remunerative grace notes to being a writer, as well. The call of Bird by Bird that keeps me coming back for more is simple: It puts me in touch, lovingly in touch, with the beauty that living a writer's life makes possible.

This is my work process: Wear old clothes because it's messy.

I have been ''stuck'' on one section of my novel for more than a month. It wasn't as though I couldn't move. I could move plenty. I could generate new ideas, options and versions I thought might help me get unstuck, but nothing worked. Like a car on ice spinning its wheels, I was unable to move forward, in this case, move forward in the story. Generating new approaches dug ruts that only made it more difficult to get unstuck. Yet, even as I knew I was doing that, I was obsessed. I couldn't stop spinning my wheels.

I analyzed why I was stuck. There was a simple, logical reason. In order to understand it, I'll have to tell you a little bit about my novel: It's the story of a chase. One team of two people, a CIA agent and a Colombian Intelligence officer, is chasing a second team of two people (what I will call our ''hero team'') consisting of a Peace Corps Volunteer, Jake, and Jesus, a revolutionary FARC soldier who is under cover, pretending to be a Colombian businessman. Jake meets Jesus after Jake is wounded in a FARC attack on the bus he's riding on. Team two doesn't know that team one is following them. They don't overtly know, but they sense something is up. The two teams are having lunch one table apart at a restaurant. Team number one has been overhearing everything team number two has been saying.

As our hero team gets up to leave the restaurant, the two agents (team number one) want to identify them yet, at the same time, not let on that they are persons of interest, so team number one dreams up this plan that makes the two teams of two into one team of four, just as a beautiful woman, Lolita, arrives on the scene. Who is Lolita? She's a puta, a prostitute. We haven't seen her since the FARC attack on the bus about 30 pages earlier. Handling the complexity of this scene is the simple, logical reason why I got stuck. I had a scene with five people, seemingly all talking and acting at once, with three of the five people pretending to be something they are not. Actually, it was my insistence on handling this scene gracefully that got me stuck. That is what has kept me hacking away at a solution for more than a month. I have been frustrated at various times, but I never felt I wasn't going to find the solution.

A writer must understand all his characters to the core, but he must not try to control their behavior; he must let their needs play out against their individual strengths and weaknesses and observe very closely what happens. Readers of last month's EWA will recognize a strong tie-in here, a proclivity against controlling one's characters, or even attempting to control them.

Here is what I did in an effort to break the logjam: This was my process. Wear old clothes because it's messy. I came up with lots of different solutions because I don't know which one would be best. My characters took on slightly different attitudes. I wound up with what seemed like a thousand different ways to go. In truth, what I had were a ton of fragments. I printed them all out. I made notes on those pages, putting yes, no, great and horrible next to certain paragraphs, and writing comments as well. Then I sat with the printed section as one would sit with a sick friend. Slowly a solution began to emerge. I took the best approaches. I found the heart of the novel, or what I thought was the heart. Then I started piecing it together. What came out was a tremendously energetic kind of writing. In every sentence something new happened. Each sentence was a paragraph. Each paragraph was a chapter. I don't think I had ever written like that before.

Sounds fresh, new and brilliant, right? Well, after I finished it and marveled at it, I admitted to myself that it was contrived, artificial, self-conscious and pretty bad. Still I didn't lose hope. Maybe I should have, but I didn't. I was determined that the effort was worth the prize, the result. As my teacher Lee Abbott said, We writers do all the work so that our readers may have all the pleasure.

I started cogitating, meditating, etc., on what was bothering me about this scene and why I couldn't get past it. I sat down three days ago and wrote a long letter to myself which I entitled Letter to Self. In the letter, I leveled with myself about a host of story elements that I was feeling uncomfortable about. I had what I call a come-to-Moses meeting with myself. It took me all day to write this letter, and when I finished, I was able to begin to write the scene. It was very simple now because I had taken all the pretense out of the story elements. I recanted a number of decisions I had previously made that now seemed implausible to me. I analyzed why sometimes I was drawn to idiosyncratic or warped characterizations.

It's very important that you understand: In order for a reader to identify with a principal protagonist, he or she must see character traits in the protagonist that he or she can identify with. The more idiosyncratic or warped those characterizations are, the harder it is for readers to relate. Readers who can't relate stop reading.

In writing my Letter to Self, I set a new pattern. I felt a great deal of relief. I had made a number of poor choices. I saw them for what they were, poor choices. In my Letter to Self, I freed myself of those choices and adopted better ones.

Here's what I know today, Thanksgiving Day, 2014: When we are stuck there comes a time when we must stop spinning our wheels. There comes a time when we must sit down, shut up and listen. Listen to ourselves. Dive deep and figure out why nothing's working.

With me, it's usually a deep-seated need to ruin or destroy the project. It sounds self-desctructive, doesn't it? It is. Through self-analysis I detected what I was doing. I made myself stop and accept a number of much better choices. I chose new terms of story that made it far easier for readers to identify with the story, the heroes in the story as well as the other characters.

Actually, these things that changed: They weren't that crucially important to the story. It wasn't as though I had to throw away large chunks of the story; rather, the changes I made were relatively minor; however, they were crucial to me.

And now, when the five characters are all together in the scene, I can handle it with aplomb because I'm not being distracted by these crazy details that I told myself were cool, but really were not cool at all. They only served to make it difficult to keep readers reading.

Now is that not something to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving Day? I hope you have a happy one.

"Why can't I write about whatever I feel like writing about?"

Isn't the appeal of becoming an artistic writer the notion that you will be as free as the breeze, free to write about whatever you please? (Even to make it rhyme? On time? Like Aunt Jamime?)

That may be the appeal of writing novels, short stories or poems, but like so many glam pursuits in life, as a writer in transition from copywriter to novelist, I can attest that the reality does not always match up to what it says in the press release. (They pay copywriters to write those.)

The dirty little secret I've never heard anyone express or write about is this: Artistic writers are not nearly as free as some might assume to take on any subject they wish. Sometimes they are forced (and I hate to use that word but it is the only one that seems appropriate) by circumstances to make strategic decisions that lead them to write the books they write in the order that they write them.

First and foremost, never underestimate the power of obsession to lead writers down rabbit holes that cause us, the reading public, to never hear from them again. As a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, I knew extremely talented writers in their 20s I was convinced would become world famous novelists who never did. In rare cases you will see difficult writers of the caliber of Mark Twain, James Joyce, William Faulkner, Thomas Pynchon or John Foster Wallace miraculously emerge from their rabbit-hole obsessions with literary masterpieces that make them famous writers.

I've learned the hard way that there is another way a writer can consign him or herself to obscurity: By choosing to write about a subject he or she cares too deeply about and is therefore too close to write about effectively.

Of course, every writer wants to write about important subjects. That is only human. We all believe we have the most meaningful things to say on subjects we are passionate about. But there may come a point in any writing career where writers become wiser and smarter, where they give up trying to write what they feel most passionate about, and, instead, go with a subject they might feel a little less passionate and more circumspect about because doing so allows them to write about it more effectively. They break the obsession they have with their subject matter and try writing about something else.

All I have written to this point is prompted by this story I am about to tell you. Every word is true.

I had been writing short stories, not very successfully, for about a year. I was having a one-on-one meeting with my writing coach, Matthew Limpede, when he told me, ''You can't keep writing like this. It doesn't work.''

He knew I had been writing what I call memorized stories, stories where I knew the outcome, in fact, knew every aspect of the story before I began writing it.

He was right: I had vested interests in certain characters in my stories. I had people I was trying to protect in my stories and people I was willing to throw under the bus. Matt knew I had been doing this. He was telling me to stop.

''But how do you know I memorized them?'' I asked.

''I just know,'' he said. Non-verbally, he gave me the impression that it was extremely easy for him to know. In fact, he was telling me that he could smell the control in my stories. It was a big turn off to him; probably to others as well.

I said, ''I feel like you're giving me a choice, Matt. I can continue on like this and be a mediocre writer at best, or I can choose to abandon my control thing. If I do that, I still might wind up being mediocre, but at least it won't be because I'm a story control freak.''

He laughed and agreed with me.

Since then I've written stories where I'm open to whatever is happening in the story. Sure, I know what the story is about, and in the most general way what happens, but I no longer have a vested interest in how the story turns out, who wins and who loses.

Some things don't happen until they happen on the page as the writer is in the midst of writing the story. They cannot be thought up in advance. When they happen, they lend authenticity and rivet interest. When that happens to me as I am writing, that's when I know things are going in a positive direction.

Lately, I've been willing to let my principal characters look bad or do evil things if it furthers the story, and if it builds character and makes the writing more interesting.

Moses said: Let my people go. Since I had that conversation with Matt, I say: Let my people break bad, if that is what they would like to do.

On Weaving a Yarn.

This is what I know about telling a story:

To tell a story, you must first create a world.

Worlds are comprised of objects, people (called characters) and circumstances.

When we read a story filled with characters who manipulate objects, and who both manipulate and are manipulated by circumstances, we sit up. We take notice. We might identify. If it is well written, we might create a connection with the characters. We might see them differently than they see themselves. We might develop X-ray vision and see through the bullshit they clothe themselves in. And we might see them as complicated people with foibles, strengths and weaknesses, hurts, fears and desires all of us share to some degree. If all those things jell what we get as readers is the sense that these characters are people. As readers, we might identify with them as we do with real people. That doesn't mean we always like them. We might sympathize with them even while they repel us or even terrify us. Skillful writers can bring us to sympathize with monsters. We might also sympathize with innocents, yet still believe they are fools for being innocent, given their circumstances and past experiences. We might pity fools and innocents in the end because they protect themselves from seeing the world as it actually is.

How we feel as readers about all these characters, their objects and the circumstances they face: It's a little like rifling through our own closet for something to wear. We try on how we feel about the characters in the story. We might travel back in our memories of people we have known. If we find something to wonder at and identify and connect with in our character clothes closet, we have become (what they call in the publishing industry) hooked.

Getting-hooked: This is when we sense we are in the hands of a gifted writer. We know we are powerless to resist. We, the readers become willing, but possibly, at the same time, unwilling riders on a roller coaster car being dragged up a very steep hill. As this happens, we might have vague impressions and premonitions. We fantasize bad outcomes. We fear for our characters. (By this point they are our characters.) We cannot turn off the fear. We're hooked and worse: We're obsessed. We cannot bear to stop reading because if we did, we would not know what happens when this set of characters, with this set of objects are forced to deal with these circumstances.

Circumstances don't stay the same. They change. They often change as the story progresses. Like some dreaded disease, as soon as they make themselves known, they may mutate. They often get worse. They always get worse. Much worse. Chaos is a talented writer's best friend.

Neither do people stay the same. (In fact, one reliable rule of thumb I often use to determine if I have a story: If your character or characters don't change during the course of a story, you don't have a story. You have a profile, a portrait or a character sketch, but not a story.) A skillful writer might not let you know right away that your principal character is changing right before your eyes. She might take you down a path that lets you believe in your character's goodness and strength to overcome all odds, until suddenly she might reveal how totally outclassed your character is by the circumstances, given the objects the character has at his disposal to deal with the circumstances. Only then will you know the truth and be swept away by the awesome realization of how far your character has fallen from the position she once occupied.

The climax of the story is analogous to the rush of the rollercoaster racing down the other side of the hill at breakneck speed. There will be blood. After all, this is no country for old men. The ending is sad, indeed. Or bittersweet. It could entail enlightenment, great happiness or horrible tragedy. The roller coaster pulls into the station and everybody gets out of their car changed in some small way, remarking and agreeing a great ride was had by all.

So, there it is: What I know about telling a story. I was reminded of this as I read Cry, the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton, one of the most important novels in the literary history of South Africa. It was originally published in 1948. In the late 40s and early 50s, it was an international best seller. I grew up with a copy of that book in my home, although I never read it.

Cry, the Beloved Country tells the story of what happened in South Africa when the land was unable to support the people and their tribal way of life, when people were forced to leave the land and move to Johannesburg where everything went wrong for them. (In that way the story is identical to John Steinbeck's Grapes of Wrath)

Here are a few things I learned about writing stories by reading Alan Paton's novel:

Don't waste words on character's thoughts (interior monologue). Only imagine what they do. Report to the reader what they do. It is a little like what a magician might recommend if he wanted us to figure out how he does tricks. Of course no magician would ever want us to figure out his tricks. But if Alan Paton were that magician, he might tell us: Watch my characters hands and feet. Focus on my characters behaviors. Focus on what happens. Put what happens into simple words.

This gives Cry, the Beloved Country restraint that has the affect of drawing the reader into the work rather than distancing the reader.

Don't waste words on backstory and exposition. Let the story happen between the people it's happening to. There are so many scenes, wonderful scenes, where Alan Paton lets the main character (who plays the role of a detective in a mystery) question other characters about why certain things happened when they left the land and arrived in Johannesburg, and why nothing went right for them. We find out the answers to the main character's questions at the same time as the main character does. Tremendous immediacy, authenticity, poignancy and reader-interest is generated. We as readers feel as though we are witness to real and important events. Drama results.

You want to create characters that readers fall in love with, identify with and are obsessed about? Leave out more than you put in. Call it spare prose, if you like, but, please spare us the details. Why? Because we the readers will supply the details. By not supplying us with all the details you help us to enjoy the writing all the more because we, as your faithful readers, fill in what you, the writer, chooses not to. In so doing, we become more involved, not less. The work becomes partly the creation of your readers. What happens in the novel happens in the readers' minds even more than it happens in the writer's mind.

More next month…